


Even

by athenasdragon



Series: athenasdragon "official" dragon age canon [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Insecurity, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:45:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: There are many things Inquisitor Rena Trevelyan wants to say to Cullen after she finds out he's stopped taking lyrium. Unfortunately, she's called to the Frostback Basin on business. Now their respective insecurities may prevent them from reaching out to each other when they need it most.This is an experiment with writing a) more complicated, realistic relationships and b) an asexual Inquisitor and I'm not sure which genre it really falls into.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what to call this, really. Is it angst? Is it fluff? Is it angst with a happy ending? Is it a realistic portrayal of a few moments in an insecurity-ridden relationship? Whatever it is, there's sure as hell no real plot. I started this like a month ago and just finished it as a warm up so enjoy!

“Can we speak later? I… need a moment.”

Rena pauses a few feet before Cullen’s great desk, slightly startled. “Er, yes, of course.”

The Commander does not look up from the report in front of him. It’s only a few lines, but he furrows his brow and leans closer.

A glance around the room proves reassuring: there is no trace of the thrown lyrium kit from that morning, save a faint yellow mark by the door where the paint rubbed off on the stone. The bookshelf has been tidied after the slight disarray inflicted by Cullen’s fist.

Rena can hear his words, still.

_“I should be taking it!” And then again, softer, broken: “I should be taking it.”_

His hand is shaking where it rests on his desk. He pulls it into his lap, out of sight, inadvertently drawing attention to the bruised knuckles. The candlelight casts skeletal shadows over his face, and Rena thinks of the dark circles she noticed beneath his eyes after the march from Haven. What a toll that must have taken on him—what a toll everything must have taken, and yet here he is, working late into the night as always.

There are a hundred things she came to tell him. She’s setting out early in the morning for the Frostback Basin, and terrified; she despises the fog-drenched hollows hidden under roots thick around as horses, and the last time she ventured past the outpost, she barely made it to the camp of their Avvar allies without being mauled by one of the monstrous lizard creatures lurking along the shore. She hates the place.

So Rena wants to tell him, before she leaves for Maker knows how long, that nothing between them has changed. Watching him tear himself apart is breaking her heart. She wants to tell him to sleep. Mostly, she wants to embrace him, for both of their comfort. The road ahead is long.

Instead, she looks down at her own hands, trembling too now and roughened by hard work, the likes of which she never experienced in Ostwick.

“Of course,” she murmurs again, and leaves.

* * *

Her trip to the Frostback Basin is cut mercifully short when Rena receives a missive from Leliana. According to her Spymaster, there are urgent decisions to be made regarding the siege on Adamant Fortress, and a company of soldiers has been sent to collect the materials they need instead. So Rena mounts her sturdy Fereldan horse and puts the clammy mists at her back, grateful for the stinging snow and clear air as she follows her path northward once more.

She crests a ridge the next day and sees the scorched remains of Haven. She cuts sharply East before continuing North.

Finally, Skyhold appears at the end of its long valley, and the sight of it knocks the air from Rena’s lungs. Ostwick was never quite home—it was a place she lived, waiting for she knew not what. She has no ties in Ferelden. In Orlais, her Free Marches heritage and broad, plain face mark her as “oafish” –

_Josephine paints a bright smile and steers her past the muttering group of women, teeth sharp beneath their masks. Rena turns her head long enough to watch them flutter towards the group forming around Cullen. She’s suddenly very aware of the inelegant set of her shoulders, crooked still from being thrown against the trebuchet in Haven. She draws a finger along the deep scar which carves through her eyebrow and down her cheek. Oafish._

– yet here, in this tiny island of hospitality amid the Frostbacks’ eternal winter, perched carefully between two unstable nations, things are implausibly good. The unlikely team which has rallied around their Inquisitor makes for a good force and better stories. She’s already anxious to return.

She flies across the narrow stone bridge on her mount, barely slowing as a cry is raised along the battlements and the gate raised. She only reins the beast in when the hammer-strikes of its shoes on stone fade to the sounds of frost-hardened earth and grass.

“Inquisitor!” Leliana hails her before she has even dismounted, and she smiles. Business as usual.

* * *

Leliana’s strategizing takes much of the afternoon. They discuss how best to scout the area, how to lay subtle supply lines should the siege become protracted, and which members of the Inquisition should spearhead the attack. Josephine wanders through occasionally to remind them which nobles in the area have offered support and which territories must be avoided.

Rena does not see Cullen.

When orange light slants across the war table, Leliana takes pity on her and sends her away. “You’ll need your sleep. I believe Cassandra means to spar with you in the morning, and we’re expecting more recruits within the week.”

Rena nods, rubbing the bruises tattooed into her arm by her shield. “I think sleep would be wise. I’ve sparred with Cassandra enough times to know that I had better be alert.”

She stops to admire the fresh masonry work in the hall, splashed with color by the light pouring in the stained glass window. The air is scented with fresh-cut wood and the rich meats spread on tables throughout the grand room. A few of the recruits have started to trickle in, worn thin and hungry from training all day in the cold, but they chatter and laugh now that they are free. Rena smiles at them and turns away from the feast and towards her own quarters.

It takes some time to undo the effects of her journey. Her hair, plaited for two weeks now, is knotted from the damp and the wind. Rena spends much too long trying to smooth her fingers through the braid before taking a dagger and slicing through the blasted thing. Her mud-brown hair falls to her shoulders, her indelicate work apparent in the choppy ends, each section somehow a different length.

She glares at herself in the refined mirror at her vanity. Rena Trevelyan was a noble girl, uninteresting but cultured, her face smooth and bored-looking, her hands soft. The woman looking back at her cannot be that girl. This woman is the Inquisitor: a deep scar down the left side of her face, bruises along her jaw, hair wild and eyes more so.

Rena picks up a brush inlaid with something shimmering and tugs it through her hair, and when she finishes she finally turns from the mirror to wash her face at the basin. With some of the grime gone, she feels a little lighter. When she finally thinks to unstrap her armor and lay it against the wall, she feels lighter still. She bundles up her travel-soiled clothes and puts on a light grey linen suit that lets her breathe freely.

Exhaustion hits her like a wave. She had thought to go speak with Cullen, but the worry in her heart has had a fortnight to sink, dull and heavy, into her stomach, and it does not burn with the same fire. Her Commander handled himself for years before they met. He does not need her to hold his hand. Besides, her bed looks so welcoming, even with her stomach empty and protesting.

A knock echoes from below.

Rena frowns and pushes a hand through her hair. Leliana again? Surely not. Cassandra, come to confirm their plans to spar in the morning?

The staircases down to the hall door keep Rena in suspense for a long minute, even at the fastest pace her tired legs will support. “Coming!” she calls, nearly stumbling down the last few steps.

She barely has time to be surprised that it’s Cullen because he starts speaking as soon as she opens the door.

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, I had no idea that you were leaving. I would have—I wouldn’t—our conversation might have gone differently if I had known that you were going, and I’d—er, your hair?” Rena raises an eyebrow, and her Commander flushes. “Erm, yes, well, Leliana told me you had returned and I—I thought you might be hungry.” He holds up a plate of meat and boiled vegetables from the feast in the hall behind him. It’s loud now, crowded with soldiers eating and joking and somehow clattering every utensil against every dish.

The food smells like heaven. Rena smiles. “I believe I am. Why don’t you get some for yourself and come in?”

_We have a lot to talk about._

It’s Cullen’s turn to smile, if the expression is a little tight. He hands Rena her plate and returns a moment later with one of his own. They plod back up the dimly-lit stairs, careful not to drop any food, until they finally find themselves in the decadent furnishings of the Inquisitor’s quarters.

There is no table, and only one chair. Rena drags this next to the fire and pretends to search for another while Cullen sits, waving away his protests when she then settles on the floor. The hearth is warm and pleasant now that night’s piercing cold has set in. Besides, she knows now to look for the stiffness in his gait that belies his pain; it doesn’t look bad tonight, but a soft chair by the fire can’t hurt.

“I hope you’re not going to start treating me like I’m something breakable,” Cullen says, his voice slightly amused.

Mouth full of potato, Rena shrugs. “We’re all breakable.”

Cullen grunts and turns his gaze to the fire. Rena knows it was the wrong thing to say, but it’s what she knows to be true. She’s been broken in more ways than one since she crawled out of the Rift. But she keeps crawling.

“What I started to say earlier,” Cullen says, still speaking to the flames, “is that I was… short with you, when we last spoke. I meant to seek you out the next morning after a few hours’ sleep. Josephine informed me that you had left.” He glances at her sidelong. “I can only hope that I didn’t frighten you with my outburst, or cause you worry.”

“Cullen, nothing has changed between us,” Rena says in a rush. “Unless you want things to change. But I would—I would very much like for whatever this—for whatever we…” She trails off, scowling at the exhaustion clouding her thoughts. “Look. Maker knows none of the people in this blighted Inquisition are perfect. We’re all just stumbling along, hoping that we’re able to make some difference. I’m frightened, but not of you; I’m frightened _for_ you, and of course I’m worried. But you’re a good man, and you work day and night to make things run smoothly, coordinating our people and training them up. And if you’ve made poor choices, Maker’s breath,” she laughs shakily, “I’ve made plenty. I’m just trying to steer us all through this mess alive, and that seems a little easier when you’re there.”

They both look a bit shocked at the outpouring of emotion. Rena spears a massive bite of something that might be beef and stuffs it into her mouth before she can say another word.

“I… see,” says Cullen. His tone is serious, but the beginnings of a smile tug at his mouth. “So I really haven’t frightened you off?”

Rena shakes her head. “You’ll ‘ave oo ‘ry ‘arder nekt time,” she manages through her full mouth, and Cullen really laughs at that. She swallows painfully. “Cullen, we’ve all had to make difficult choices, and I’m certain we’ll live to regret some of them. But I think that you’re making the right one here.”

The Commander’s expression sobers. “I still expect Cassandra to be honest with me if that changes.”

“As do I, but I don’t expect it to.”

They fall into a silence that’s more companionable. Rena remembers a bottle of wine on her desk and stands up to retrieve it, stretching as she goes. There are no goblets. They pass the bottle back and forth, enjoying the rich bitterness of the Orlesian drink. Eventually, they scrape the last of the hot food from their plates and Cullen wordlessly stacks them. He hesitates for a moment before leaving them on the desk.

“How have you been?” Rena asks, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, fine. You know how the paperwork piles up.”

“Hmm.”

They look at each other, standing stiff and awkward, and suddenly they’re laughing. It’s more than a little because of their exhaustion, but in that moment the distance between them seems nothing but absurd. Rena grabs Cullen’s arm with one hand and the bottle of wine with the other and drags him towards her bed, where they perch on the end, still chuckling to themselves.

“How are you really?” Rena asks, leaning against him.

There’s a short pause. “My hands are cold,” Cullen admits. “Otherwise I really am fine. At least right now.”

Rena smiles and reaches for his hands. They’re rough and scarred, spotted with bruises that have faded to varying degrees, and they do feel cold. She perches the wine between them sets about rubbing the warmth back into them.

“What about you? I nearly hit you with that lyrium kit, I refuse to talk to you, and then you have to spend a fortnight on the road and in your least favorite place. You have the right to be angry.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s my _least_ favorite place.”

“Last time you got back from the Frostback Basin, Josephine had to calm everyone down after the Herald of Andraste herself said, and I quote, ‘If I ever have to return to that Maker-forsaken tree nightmare, I’ll build my own blighted pyre and lay on it happily.’”

Rena pauses guiltily. “Did I say that?”

“ _Announced_ might be a better word. Immediately after arriving. In the middle of the courtyard.”

“Ah.” Rena allows herself a rueful smile as she considers a proper response. “Well, to be truthful, I’m exhausted. And I worry about you, and every other soul here.” She nudges Cullen lightly. “But mostly you.”

“Hmph.” Cullen retrieves his hands and sets the wine on the floor so that he doesn’t spill it when he pulls Rena close. “I suppose I can’t stop you.”

“No.” Ducking her head under his chin, Rena allows herself to melt into his side. “Besides, I know you worry about me, so we’re even.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Josie told me you paced for days after I left.”

“Oh, more than days. I just moved the pacing to my office so I wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Rena laughs. “Like I said. We’re even.” She taps at his breastplate: an unfortunately cold barrier between her head and the warm curve of Cullen’s chest. “Don’t you think you should take this thing off?”

“I suppose.”

They reluctantly pull apart so that Cullen can remove his armor. Rena has never gotten a satisfactory explanation as to why he always wears it around Skyhold; something about representing their troops, he said, though if that were the case surely it’s _she_ who should always be in her finery.

“You changed your hair,” Cullen comments, his voice muffled by the glove he’s pulling off with his teeth.

Rena’s fingers fly to the jagged edge. “It was an inconvenience,” she says defensively.

“I like it.”

Rena snorts. “Flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“I do! I always wonder how people can fight with long hair. I’d think it would get in the way.”

“So you like it because long hair is a hazard?”

Cullen grins, dropping his gauntlets to the floor. “Is that a bad reason? I don’t know anything about hairstyles. It looks clean and convenient.”

“Nice recovery.”

Finally free of his armor, Cullen moves back on the bed, his expression inviting Rena to follow. “There are lots of things I like about you, you know. If you want the list.”

A flush of something like embarrassment floods Rena’s chest, and she knows Cullen sees her redden. She wishes she could just let go of herself and joke with him, accept his compliments, but the scarred face from the mirror leaps to her memory. Every compliment only serves to draw her attention back to herself, when she would much rather lose herself in him.

Seeing her discomfort, Cullen pulls her back with him until they lie facing each other. “Or maybe I can start with just one.”

Rena allows his open expression to draw her in. “All right, but then I get to do one.”

“Deal.” Cullen lifts his hand to trace the curve of her face. Inexplicably, his thumb finds her scar, his calloused skin catching slightly on the ill-healed line. “I like this.”

Rena can’t help it; she laughs, short and loud. “Why?”

“It reminds me that you’re not perfect. Laugh if you want, but you’re an intimidating figure around Skyhold. It’s nice to see that someone managed to land one hit on the all-powerful Herald—though I’m sorry for the pain it caused,” he hastily adds.

“No apology necessary.” Rena smiles a little, in spite of herself. She flushes even brighter when Cullen leans in and presses a kiss to the scar. “My turn?”

“Your turn.”

“I love how you’re always willing to get up and blow out the candles once I’m in bed.”

Cullen laughs, long and deep, and kisses her once more on the cheek before rising to do as she asks. Rena takes the opportunity to peel back the blankets and wriggle under them. When Cullen returns, she pulls him close and folds the covers back over them both, relishing the way he sighs when they’re finally pressed against each other. His warmth is endlessly reassuring after her cold journey home. The wine buzzes through her veins, making her thoughts slow and her eyelids heavy.

“Rena?”

“Mmm.”

There’s a breath of hesitation, so Rena opens her eyes and looks up into Cullen’s barely visible face. “I know you’re falling asleep, but I was wondering if I could, er…”

Rena smiles and cuts off the question with a kiss. Cullen hums contentedly against her mouth. Their arms are locked around each other, pulling them together with an intensity borne of a fortnight apart, and their kiss is slow and hot and sweet with wine.

Eventually they break apart to breathe, still folded close. Rena sighs. “We have more to talk about tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Good night, Cullen.”

“Good night.”


End file.
